M Gene
by ice-storm1196
Summary: AU. Sort of crossover w/ Marvelverse-mentions of some characters. Sherlock is a mutant. No slash.
1. Prologue

**AU. Sort of crossover with Marvelverse. Mostly X-men and mutants. Mentions of some Marvel characters. I own nothing. No slash.**

The wings began to appear when he was ten years old. It started on the nape of his neck, just a few black feathers intersparsed with his hair. He didn't really think anything of it. He didn't have many friends, and feathers never came up. He assumed everyone had them. By the time he was eleven, he knew he was a freak. The feathers had spread to his shoulders. He had seen lots of backs before. None had feathers. Then, the pain started. His bones felt like they were twisting, poking out of his skin. Then came the day when they burst through. All he ad done was bend over. But his skin stretched and split and he screamed. He stripped off his shirt and stared in horror at his back in the mirror. He was bleeding. But worst of all, two small black wings lay crumpled, wet and blood-soaked, against his back. With shaking fingers he brushed one. He tugged at it and screamed again.

His father was sickened by the wings. His mother, frightened. His brother was indifferent. They went to a doctor and paid him a lot of money to examine the boy and not say anything. His father asked, demanded that the doctor remove the wings. The doctor said it was impossible. They were a part of the boy, as much as an arm or a leg was a part of him. To remove the wings would kill him. The wings had to stay. They had to be exercised as well.

They were a lot bigger than he had originally thought, once they were clean and dry and fluffed out, and by the time he was twelve, they were large enough to envelop him entirely. The exercises allowed him to use them as well. His father never let him fly outside, so he had to use his own suite of the family manor. It was hard, and he wasn't very good. Flying indoors was almost impossible. He hated it. It was confining, and a little bit scary.

When he went outside, or to see his father, he had to bind the wings and hide them under his shirt. He could fold them very small and the tighter they were bound, the tighter the shirt, the more they pressed against his back, the harder they were to see. It hurt. It made him irritable, impatient. He pulled further into himself, distancing himself from other people. He pushed them away, didn't let anyone near. He had always seen more than most, and he worked at developing that skill further, using it to push people even further. He saw everything, made no connections, pushed down emotions and sentiment for a shell of logic and reason.

He began doing research. Mutants. He found a paper by a man called Professor Charles Xavier. He determined that he was probably one of the mutants that Xavier talked about. He began watching his brother. The article had suggested that mutation was the result of genetics, which meant that his brother probably had the same gene, even if it was only recessive. Six months into his twelfth year, he determined for a an absolute fact that his brother was indeed a mutant as well. It hadn't manifested itself physically, which seemed a bit unfair. His brother could control machines, technology. He discovered the term was "technopath."

He began doing more research, experiments. By the time he was fourteen, he isolated the mutant gene in his brother and himself. He'd been very proud of himself for finding it, he even wrote a paper about it, sent it to a scientific journal under an assumed name. Much of the scientific community already knew about the Mutant gene, but the paper was published anyway. The boy told no one. His brother knew anyway.

That year, the family, excluding his father, went to their house in the country, and his mother let him fly. It was very different than flying inside. Flying outside was easy. It was instinctual. It was wonderful. His wings ached at the end of the day, but it was a good ache, not the cramped, tingling that he felt when he bound them.

When he was fifteen, through various experiments and patient research, he discovered that his father had passed on the gene to his children. He wrote another article. He told his father about the gene, but he hadn't been pleased.

The doctor was called. The boy had a black eye, a cut on his forehead, bruised and, in two cases, cracked ribs, and a broken wing. His mother told the doctor he had flown into a tree. His brother confirmed it when the doctor looked skeptical. The boy said nothing, just stared blankly with eyes glassy with pain and a betrayal that he would never forgive.

He now pulled himself away from his family, often refusing to leave his room for days at a time. He ate little, slept less. At night, he sometimes snuck out to fly. He searched out the neighborhood families, searching for those who might have the gene. He compared blood samples of his own blood and that of a young man willing to donate his own to learn more. He experimented, trying to figure out if there was a way to negate the effects of mutation. He didn't find one.

At eighteen, he went to university, with a major in cellular biology. It bored him. He still saw everything. He lacked the ability to understand when it was appropriate to say what it was he saw. His roommate introduced him to cigarettes and cocaine. It made his mind race, kept it stimulated, staved off the boredom. With his abrasive personality, his lack of a filter, and his lack of empathy, he made everyone quite hate him. At twenty, he didn't care if he hurt people's feelings with his observations. He had pulled so far into himself at the age of fifteen, that he had almost forgotten how to feel.

He continued his experiments and research on people with the mutant gene. He continued writing his articles, eventually leaving the printed journals, and publishing himself, online. He made quite a name for himself. Or rather, D. Arthur made a name for himself. And he was still bored. The cocaine was the only thing that made life interesting, made things tolerable. University was boring. The classes were too easy, the people were idiots, nothing was challenging enough. He graduated early, and for five years, he barely survived.

A young DI found him in an alleyway one night, higher than he could remember ever allowing himself to be before. The DI put him in a holding cell to come down while he filled out the necessary paperwork. He was still there when two officers brought in a screaming man, hands streaked with dried blood. "I didn't kill her," he was sobbing, "I loved her, I loved her, I don't care what she done, I found her like that I swear it, I didn't kill her!" The young man in the holding cell looked on with interest. He was coming down quicker than expected, and the drama in front of him took his mind off things slightly. One of the officers explained the situation to the DI.

"Woman, thirty-seven, found dead. Throat slit. She was cheating on him," he jerked his head toward the sobbing man. "Caught him with his hand on her throat, knife next to him, fingerprints all over it. Obviously feeling guilty, crying his eyes out."

"Why?" the young man in the cell asked. Three heads turned to face him.

"What?"

"Why would he feel guilty when he is obviously innocent?" he asked, impatiently.

"What the bloody hell are you on about?" asked the DI, curious.

The young man sighed. "Her throat was slit. Where's the blood?"

"All over his hands," snapped one of the officers. "Why are we listening to this junkie anyway?"

"Because you're idiots, obviously," said the young man. "If he slit her throat, there would be blood spatter. Everywhere. On his sleeves, on the front of his shirt, maybe even his face. He's an office worker, he wouldn't know how to handle a knife effectively so he _wouldn't_ get sprayed. He obviously hasn't changed out of his work clothes, that shirt has only been worn for a day, but it isn't wrinkled enough for him to have pulled it out of the laundry. And there isn't enough blood on his hands. If he had been there when she died, he would have more blood on his hands. There isn't enough—it had already started drying when he got there, I'd say not long before you lot did. I'd wager that the man she was having the affair with killed her, or possibly he had another lover."

The officers scoffed, but the DI insisted they look into it. It made sense what the young man had said, and he could see it for himself now as he looked at the man, at the crime scene photos that the young addict hadn't even seen. There was a lot of blood. There was no way someone could have killed the woman there and come away from it with no blood on them at all.

It took less than an hour for them to find someone who had seen a man throw away a shirt in a dumpster. They recovered the shirt. It was covered in blood. They found him fairly easily after that, surprised him at home. He had showered, but there was still blood under his nails that he hadn't noticed, and a spot on his earlobe, another near the hairline.

"How did you know?" the DI asked the young man, who was now staring at the ceiling of his cell.

"The same way I know that your wife is angry with you, and you've spent at least two nights on the couch and that you had an onion bagel with cream cheese for breakfast and you haven't been to the bathroom since this morning."

"Yeah…but _how_ do you know that? Are you one of those mind readers or something?" The young man snorted.

"Hardly. It is always obvious when someone sleeps on a couch, it's clear in the way they hold their neck and back. You've been on the sofa at least two nights running. Onion bagel…strong scent, cream cheese, there is some on the corner of your mouth, so you haven't been to the bathroom or eaten anything since, or it wouldn't be there any longer. You have to go, you've had three cups of coffee since you brought me in, and you keep looking at the clock, so…I'd guess your shift is over, but the person who is supposed to take it is late? In any case, you can go to the bathroom, I'm not going anywhere." He lay back down. He was tired. His high was gone. He hated coming down.

The DI was thoughtful. "That was very good," he said slowly. "I have an offer for you." The young man made a noise that the DI took to mean, 'okay, continue, I'm listening.' He licked his lips and continued. "Would you like to work for the Yard? On occasion, if…if we're stuck?" The young man sat up, looking interested again.

"Like a consultant?"

"Only if you get clean," said the DI firmly. "No drugs, or no cases." The young man brushed this away as if it was an irritating fly. Get clean, no problem.

"And you'll give me hard ones? Interesting ones? If you lot are too thick to solve it?" The DI frowned.

"If we need _help_," he said. "I might call you in. We get first crack at it obviously." He didn't like some twenty five year old telling him he was an idiot. He wasn't the junkie after all.

"I won't go to jail?" asked the young man. His brother had always gotten him off before, but had said recently that he wouldn't do so again. And he couldn't go to jail. There was no way he'd be able to hide the wings. He didn't like to think about what would happen if people found out about them.

"Not this time," replied the DI. "I think I can pull some strings." The young man nodded.

"Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Holmes." The young man in the cell winced. 'Mr. Holmes' was his father, or possibly, his brother.

"Sherlock, please."


	2. Chapter 1 Meetings

**Still own nothing. Bits from 'Study in Pink.' Read and Review.**

Sherlock quite enjoyed the vacation to Florida. He had ensured that a man called Jack Hudson got executed. The man had outstanding warrants all over the UK, but Sherlock pulled a few strings to ensure that he wouldn't be extradited. The man's wife, was immensely grateful. He spent a whole extra week with her, and she absolutely doted on him. She told him that if he ever needed a place to stay, to please look her up.

Florida was also a good place to fly. Sea breezes were lovely, and no one ever looked up.

A few months after returning from Florida, he relapsed. Lestrade had been angry, but he also had been there to pick up the pieces. Sherlock had actually been sorry that he had upset Lestrade, which had been surprising. Almost as surprising as finding out that Lestrade actually cared about him. The fact that the DI told no one made him resolve to try harder to stay clean.

If that was the year that Sherlock developed an appreciation, however slight, for DI Lestrade, it was also the year he found a strong dislike of Sally Donovan, and an outright hatred for a man called Anderson. Sherlock wasn't sure if he even had a first name, and he didn't care. He was an idiot, and Sherlock had no time for idiots. Until that year, Anderson had been working as a low level member of the forensics team, not even senior enough to actually go to crime scenes, at least, not interesting ones. Then he got promoted, which did nothing to raise Sherlock's opinion on the people in charge of the New Scotland Yard.

He met Sally Donovan at a crime scene to which he had actually been invited. He was rarely invited to crime scenes, though he often showed up anyway. Other times, Lestrade brought the information to him later. But this time, he had been invited. Sally Donovan asked who he was. She'd adjusted her shirt, so it clung tighter to her breasts, tossed her hair, bit her bottom lip. Signs of attraction. He recognized in Sally the same ridiculous attraction to him that he saw in the pathologist, Molly Hooper. She was flirting. He didn't have time for it, and he didn't have time for her. So he did what he always did. And as he spun out Sally's secrets, he reduced her to tears. "Piss off, _freak_" she'd spat. And with that one statement, Sally Donovan lost any chance she might have had for Sherlock to eventually respect her.

He had long ago shut himself away from the emotions that would have held him back. This included feeling bad if he hurt someone's feelings. It also included feeling bad if someone was less than kind to him. Most of the time, he didn't even intend to hurt anyone. He was simply stating facts. But when it came to people finding him attractive, he was downright brutal. One reason of course, was that he didn't have the time or particularly care for romance. It was a distraction from the work. It was a waste of time and brain space. The other reason, of course, was because of the wings. Obviously, no one apart from his family and the doctor who had continued treating him his entire life knew about them. And if people were to find out that he was part of the group of people termed 'Mutants' he would be less likely to be trusted, he would be more feared. That could only be detrimental. Relationships, therefore, even friendships, had to be cut out of his life. He couldn't afford them.

But Sally Donovan had called him a freak. It was the one insult that still managed to cut him to the core. He hated that it bothered him, hated that he agreed with her. He hated the wings. He would gladly give up flying forever if only he could be rid of them. But keeping them tightly folded and against his back when he was in public made everything worse, because it _hurt_. And he hated them.

He had always felt like a freak, and every time after that, whenever she saw him, Sally turned the knife a little more, beating the word against his skull, pressing it into his skin, until it burned to see her. He fought back, a battle she had no idea he was fighting, taking cheap shots where he could, pointing out and making fun of her tendencies to fall for unavailable people. Usually, the men she was with were married, or in another relationship. One time the man was gay. Once 'he' was a 'she.' And Sally still called him freak. Eventually, she added 'lunatic' and 'psychopath' to her repertoire of insults, but neither stung him like the original. And every time she saw him, she greeted, 'hello freak.' And so Sherlock didn't much like Sally Donovan.

At night he tried to fly. It was harder, in London. The thermals weren't as good, and it was too bright in a lot of places. But it was better than nothing. And he needed the opportunity to stretch his wings. He always let them out when he was in his flat. Then, he had another relapse. Lestrade told him that he could find a flat share or forget cases. Sherlock said it was idiotic, that having a flat mate wouldn't do anything, but Lestrade was adamant. And Mycroft wanted him to get a flat share too. Wanted someone to spy on him more like. But railing was pointless. And Lestrade withheld cases from him more a month until he agreed to look for someone to live with. He was not pleased. He didn't need someone to watch him, no matter what Mycroft thought. But really, all he had to do was make a show of _looking_ for a flat mate. He didn't actually have to follow through. And he was right. He moved into 221B Baker Street—Mrs Hudson had been as good as her word, even gave him a discounted rate. As soon as he started putting out feelers for potential flat shares Lestrade started giving him cases again. He could survive binding his wings around his flat for a little bit.

Several flatmates came and went. None managed to put up with Sherlock for more than a week. He was very proud. In his greatest success, the man had only lasted three hours. With flatmates, he could only let his wings free in his room. It was very confining. He hated it.

One day, he was busy at the lab at Saint Bart's. He had an appointment with Molly and a corpse in an hour, so his experiment was neatly broken down into two parts, for two different cases, actually. He had kicked a terrified med student out of the lab. Mike Stamford, who had been overseeing the student's project had looked a little disapproving. "Was that really necessary Sherlock?"

"Of course," replied Sherlock blankly. "I need to do an experiment."

"Naturally." And Sherlock didn't share. There is not way he'd agree to take turns with a med student. So of course he'd had to kick the student out. Mike rolled his eyes. "How've you been anyway?" Sherlock glared at Mike. Though Mike was one of the few people he didn't actively dislike. He'd always been, well, kind to Sherlock, no matter how awful Sherlock was to him. He was decent. He didn't appreciate it when Sherlock made his observations, but he didn't call him freak and he let him lose the lab. So, instead of making an acidic remark, he shrugged.

"Looking for a flat share," he said. "It has been tedious."

"No one wants to live with you huh?" Sherlock didn't dignify Mike's comment with a response. Stamford left. Sherlock headed down to the morgue. Time to whip a corpse.

He was waiting on the bruising results. He had left his crop in the mortuary, and he had only just realized it, about halfway through the second experiment. He had forgotten it when he made his grand exit and taken a cheap shot at Molly. Which, though it had been amusing, had been a trifle unnecessary. He had long ago decided to treat his interactions with Molly as an experiment. He was interested to see how much abuse she would take before getting over her pointless infatuation. So far—quite a lot. It was fascinating.

He was almost finished with the experiment when Stamford returned with another man. This one had a cane and a bad limp. "Bit different from my day," he commented. A nice enough voice. He stood, straight back, strong, leg didn't seem to be bothering him.

"Stamford, can I have your phone?" Sherlock asked, made up some excuse about not having service on his, told a half truth about preferring to text. Stamford didn't have his phone. Sherlock didn't expect him to. He wanted to see what the other man would do. He offered Sherlock his phone. "Thank you." He sent the necessary text and handed the phone back. He knew quite a lot about his man, this John Watson. He knew everything he needed to know at any rate.

But John Watson wasn't put off by him. He even agreed to meet him at the flat the next afternoon. Even after he'd rattled off all his immediate observations. Interesting.

More interesting, currently, was the case Sherlock was waiting for Lestrade to call him in on. The other two cases, the ones he was finishing up, he didn't care about those, not really. But Lestrade still didn't trust him enough for a big case. Even if he definitely needed Sherlock's help. Three serial not-suicides. Fascinating.

Then, somehow, John Watson managed to be interesting again. He agreed to help on the case, he traversed across rooftops with Sherlock, even though he'd been limping along on a cane not a half hour before. Sherlock was pleased with himself for figuring out the limp was psychosomatic. Then, John was fascinated by Sherlock's deductive abilities. Not put off, not freaked out. He thought it was fantastic. Sherlock wasn't entirely sure what to make of this John Watson. But he thought he might be able to live with him, even if it meant restricting his wings. Just for a little while, he was willing to try.


	3. Chapter 2 New

**Chapter 1 'Meetings' is fixed. Thanks for letting me know I'd posted it twice!**

**Still don't own anything. **

John had been living with Sherlock for several months. Sherlock had been forced to only let his wings free alone in his room, and John living there made it more difficult to go fly. At least he had a day job, Sherlock decided. It allowed him more freedom to go about the flat, at least some days, without fear of being disturbed or seen. But he liked John, which surprised him. And John didn't seem to want to leave, he even helped on cases, he'd shot a man for Sherlock the night he moved in. Sherlock was a little unsure about what to do about that kind of loyalty, so he mostly ignored it. But he found himself making more of an effort to be, at the very least, civil to John. And through John, he found himself being nicer to other people too. He barely noticed it, at first. Then, one day, he noticed that he actually felt bad for something he said to Molly. Not enough to say anything, but John's disappointed face flashed into his mind and he felt a sudden stab of guilt. He didn't like the feeling, so he pushed it away. But after that, he tried to make more of an effort, with some people anyway. People he had to see often. Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson. It wasn't enough that people actually noticed, he didn't think. But it was enough that he no longer felt those annoying stabs of guilt, or saw John's "I am very disappointed in you Sherlock" face.

One day, after a particularly thrilling case, Sherlock nearly collapsed with hunger. He had barely eaten all week, practically vibrating with excitement as he had been. He'd slept a drum total of about eight hours during that time. Mycroft sent a package. John didn't know why Sherlock got so furious about something as inexplicable as birdseed. Sherlock got the message. He ate a rather big breakfast. And Lunch. Also Dinner. And he sent Mycroft a text with a computer virus written in. It effectively shut down Mycroft's phone and computers—every wifi capable device in the proximity of the text, for nearly half an hour. If he hadn't been a technopath, or he hadn't caught it soon enough, he would have had to buy entirely new equipment. As it was, it wasn't debilitating, but it was inconvenient and he was late to an important video conference with the King of Portugal. Mycroft got the message too. He never sent birdseed to Sherlock again. He would have paid Sherlock an angry visit as soon as he found the time, except for what happened three days later.

It was a new case. Sherlock and John were chasing after their killer. Sherlock often thought that he quite literally had the eyes of a hawk, and maybe he did. He had used his eyesight to his advantage on cases more than once, and this time, it allowed him to see that the man had a gun. It also allowed him to see when the gun made the shift from pocket to hand. He saw when the man turned and fired. It was a phenomenal shot, or maybe just lucky, especially as both target and shooter were moving. The bullet headed straight for John's head. It would have connect too, if Sherlock hadn't started moving the second he saw the trigger being pulled. He turned, shoving John out of the way, and the bullet, instead of burying itself into John's head, slammed into Sherlock's shoulder. It punched straight through his wing. He fell into the wall as John pulled out his own gun and shot the retreating criminal in the leg.

"I'm fine," Sherlock had insisted. "He missed." They gave their statements to Lestrade, and headed back to the flat. Sherlock was pale and shaking, barely able to stand by the time they arrived, and he went straight into his room and closed the door. He refused to talk to John or let him in. Ten minutes later, Mycroft was there. He brushed past John, and into Sherlock's room. John was shocked, and even a little hurt when Sherlock let him in immediately. _Why Mycroft? Why Mycroft and not me?_ But he shut that little voice down, and told himself that at least he'd be there when Sherlock needed him. Sometimes, a person just needed family.

Then, Mycroft started yelling. Mycroft _never_ yelled. John leapt for the door, but it was locked.

"Bloody stupid idiot!" Mycroft's voice rang out loud and clear, even through the door. "Just _tell _him." _Me?_ Thought John. _Tell me what?_

"No," cam Sherlock's voice, in what he clearly thought was a stubborn, or possibly sulky voice, but was made ineffective as it was thoroughly laced with pain. "And it is none of your business." There was a thump. John thought maybe Sherlock had thrown something.

"God Sherlock. Just sit. I've done what I can, but you _need_ a doctor. There is too much blood." _Blood?_ Thought John wildly. _He was hit, I knew it! Damn him._ "Are you sure you don't want John?" John couldn't hear Sherlock's reply. "Very well." Mycroft wasn't yelling anymore, but he was moving closer to the door. John hurried to his armchair, pulling his laptop near.

Mycroft left Sherlock's room, closing the door tightly behind him. He was wiping his hands with a wet nap, but John could see the red stains. If he knew John had heard any of the conversation, he didn't give any sign. "A Doctor Heeps will be here soon. Let him in when he gets here." And Mycroft Holmes swept out of the flat.

The doctor in question arrived before a quarter hour was up, and he barely gave John a second glance as he hurried into Sherlock's room. John couldn't hear anything that happened, except once, Sherlock gave a loud cry of pain. It was nearly two hours later when the doctor re-emerged.

"What happened?" asked John.

"Oh, he'll be fine. Little bit of a graze, that's all. Give him a few days. He'll mend." He hurried out, leaving John worried and confused. Why had Sherlock lied about being shot? John could have helped. He walked over to Sherlock's door.

"Sherlock?" he called, pushing it open. The door had barely cracked an inch when something very heavy slammed into it. Probably Sherlock, judging by the grunt of pain.

"Don't come in, John. Please." John almost panicked. Sherlock never said please. Not ever. He heard the click of a lock. Then the sound of something being pushed in front of the door.

"Sherlock!" he called. There was no answer.

Sherlock's shoulder and right wing were on fire. He shouldn't have moved the night table. But John could not come in. And he wouldn't let a lock stop him, not if he thought Sherlock was in trouble. And he could not let John see him like this. Mycroft had cleaned up a lot of the blood, and he had cleaned the wing as best he could before calling Heeps. Heeps had done a lot of research on wings after Sherlock had first been brought to him as a boy. Sherlock Holmes was the only house call the doctor still made. He had instructed Sherlock not to exert the wing, or fold it, for at least forty eight hours. It had to heal, and it couldn't do that if Sherlock kept it pressed tightly to his back. He sat on the bed, wings flared to either side of him. He picked up one of the bottles that Mycroft had brought. He had said it contained a serum that would help him heal faster. Some American with an eyepatch called Livid or something had given them to Mycroft. The injection would mean that he would heal in days instead of weeks. It would also knock him out cold for at least two days.

Sherlock carefully extracted the liquid into one of his syringes, and carefully injected it. The effect was almost instantaneous. He barely managed to collapse on his stomach before passing out.

He was asleep for almost two days. His wings, as new, clean feathers grew to replace the broken damaged ones, began to molt. It was the itching, more than anything, that woke him. He shook out the wings, and feathers went flying. He tested both wing and shoulder, and, satisfied that both were sufficiently healed, if still a little sore, picked up the feathers and threw them in the rubbish bin he had next to the bed. He slid the remaining two bottles into his bedside drawer, which was still half blocking the door. He would keep one, just in case. The other he decided to study, to see if he could figure out how to make it on his own. He stretched, and utterly failed to notice that, as he has been cleaning, one of the feathers had drifted under the door into the sitting room.

John saw the feather. "What on earth?" He inspected it. It was beautiful. Really, really beautiful. It looked black at first glance, but then it seemed to shift, blues and greens and reds, depending on the light. He picked it up. In his room, Sherlock stiffened. John pinched the bottom of the feather, ran his fingers up, smoothing it. Sherlock gave a sort of strangled cry. His feathers were really quite sensitive. Even after they weren't attached to his wings anymore, he still felt a connection to them for several hours. He wasn't really sure why it was, and none of his research had enlightened him as to the cause for the sensitivity of his wings. In the sitting room, John's head snapped toward Sherlock's door.

"Sherlock? You alright?"

"Yes," Sherlock managed. To be honest, he practically squeaked.

"You don't sound alright," said John. Sherlock was shaking, he wished John would drop the feather.

"I'm _fine_" he said, sounding a bit more normal. He folded his wings tightly, and put on a shirt and jacket. He shoved the beside table out of the way and opened the door. "Give me the feather," he instructed. John was surprised.

"What? Why?"

"It's…for an experiment. I need it. You can have it back when I am done." He held out his hand expectantly. Sherlock wasn't sure why he promised John the feather. With any luck, he'd forget about it. Unlikely. John still looked concerned. But he handed over the feather. Sherlock visibly relaxed, and took the feather into his room.

"How long was I out?" he asked, upon returning to the sitting room.

"Two days," replied John. Sherlock sighed. He'd hoped it hadn't been that long.

"I guess I was hurt worse than I thought," he said.

"You think?" John snapped. "You were shot."

"Don't be ridiculous," said Sherlock airily. "If I had been shot, I wouldn't be walking about pain free. I wouldn't be able to do this," he said, wheeling his arm about in a wide circular motion. Okay, that hurt, a bit. But not badly. "I was grazed, that's all."

"Why the hell did you lie?" asked John. "I could have helped." Sherlock shrugged at that.

"I didn't want you to worry," he said, finally. He was lying, John knew it. But he wasn't likely to get any answers by pushing the issue. He sighed.

Finally, he asked, "Do you want something to eat?" And Sherlock had replied that yes thank you he was absolutely starving, he'd take eggs benedict and a piece of toast, and a mug of earl grey, thanks again, and he lay down gingerly on the couch, staring at the ceiling. John sighed again, but headed to the kitchen anyway, wondering when exactly, had he become such a pushover?


	4. Chapter 3 Opinion

**Hey, sorry it's been a while. I actually have the whole thing written down in a notebook, it's the copying it over I am trying to find time for. Anyway, here is the next chapter. Few mentions of Marvel characters. I own nothing and no one.**

They were sitting at the kitchen table. Sherlock was doing some sort of experiment that John didn't want to understand, all he knew was that this one, at least, didn't smell funny or seem to require safety gear, so he could eat his egg on toast in peace while he read the morning paper. This particular headline screamed 'Mutant Suspected in Bank Robbery.' Two years ago, people were still trying to pretend mutants didn't exist. It hadn't worked, what with the emergence of the so called 'brotherhood' and the 'x-men,' and bills being argued in congress for a Mutant Registration Act. Sherlock thought the act was stupid and that the names both organizations had chosen for themselves were idiotic. In his own articles, he had called the gene M19, which stood for Marker 19, as that was the gene he'd discovered mutations on, but most people who had commented on his articles seemed to think that M stood for mutant. He hadn't so far corrected them.

But it was foolish for the rest of society to try and deny the existence of mutants anymore, but now that it was common knowledge that they existed, instead of just in a few small scientific circles, the so called normal people were blaming mutants for absolutely everything they deemed 'inexplicable.' To Sherlock, this was incredibly moronic. How many 'impossible' crimes had he solved? And how many had involved mutants? The answers were 'quite a lot' and 'possibly one, but that was probably a fluke' respectively.

John eyed the paper.

"Insane, huh?" he said.

"What?" Sherlock glanced up at him.

"The world we live in. Not enough that we've got criminals, now they've got superpowers."

"They aren't superpowers John. Just humans with a slightly more evolved skill set."

"Sherlock, there's apparently people who are practically Superman. It's superpowers."

"This isn't one of your comic books. Anyway, he was an alien. These people are humans with…a different skill set just a cut above the rest of humanity. It would be like if one of those rugby players you like being accused of having superpowers because he was really good at sport. It isn't a superpower because some people can do things that others can't."

"This is about seeing not observing again isn't it?" asked John. Sherlock made an annoyed noise in the back of his throat.

"No, it isn't. Although it would be equally ridiculous to assume that my ability to see what others do not is a mutation. So I suppose the idea is similar." He adjusted the microscope. "I suppose if it helps you to think of it that way, you can."

"Still," continued John. "Bit frightening, if criminals have these…super special abilities that we can't hope to compete against."

"Not all mutants are criminals John," said Sherlock sharply.

"You don't have to get angry. You don't think it's even a _little_ bit unnerving?"

"What, mutants? No."

"I mean," continued John, "there's a girl who can walk through walls, a guy who shoots lasers out his eyes, and people who can control your mind or move things without touching them. And those are apparently the people on our side." Sherlock rolled his eyes and thumped the table. A pencil rolled off onto the floor.

"There. I moved the pencil without touching it. Is that frightening to you John?" John rolled his eyes and ignored Sherlock's acidic tone.

"You know what I mean. And the idea of people who are so above and beyond a typical person is sort of freaky." Sherlock shoved the microscope away and stalked into his room, slamming the door, leaving John a bit bewildered. So apparently Sherlock wasn't unnerved by people with crazy powers that could kill you without them even being in the same room. That didn't explain the apparent fury. John stared at the door to Sherlock's room, but the other man didn't re-emerge. What had he _said?_

Three days later, Sherlock still wasn't talking to John. There was a difference in Sherlock's silences. There was the usual 'I'm thinking' silence that John was used to, then there was the sulking 'I didn't get my way' silence that he was _also_ used to, but his was completely different. This was a cold fury, one that John had seen directed at other people, on occasion, but not as intensely, and it had never been aimed at _him._ He really didn't like it. When Sherlock bothered to acknowledge his existence at all, it was to level him with cold glares that made John feel very small, and a little bit like he wished he were dead, just to escape it.

He had to escape for a little bit. He was on his way back from Tesco, when Mycroft's car appeared. To John's immense surprise, Mycroft was in it.

"So. Doctor Watson," he said, getting straight to the point for once. "What did you say to my brother?"

"I don't know. He just got mad."

"Doctor, my brother very rarely just 'gets mad.' There is always a reason for it, even if it is not always readily obvious to a casual observer." It was quite clear by his tone that 'casual observer' was Holmes speak for 'complete buffoon.' John felt mildly offended, though both Holmes brothers had called him an idiot so many times that the novelty had worn off a bit. "What were you speaking about when he got angry?" asked Mycroft.

"I dunno, some newspaper article. About the mutant that robbed the bank."

"Ah yes. Actually, if you'd read this mornings paper, you'd know that they discovered that it wasn't a mutant at all, just a rather imaginative man." By 'they' he meant Sherlock, who had somehow managed to solve the case without John ever realizing he was trying to do so. Mycroft checked his phone. John wondered where that Anthea person was, if Mycroft was checking his own phone.

"Well, yeah. But still…the _idea_ of it being a mutant was what was a bit unnerving. Don't you think? All these weird powers."

"Ah," Mycroft checked his phone again. "Did you possibly use any variation of the word 'freak?'"

"Maybe. I don't remember."

"This might come as a surprise to you Doctor Watson, but my brother doesn't like the use of that word. It's a bit like when people dislike the use of the words 'gay' or 'retarded' to describe something as 'stupid.' And Sherlock has been a bit of an advocate, or a sort, for mutant rights since he discovered mutations existed."

"Sherlock, an advocate?" asked John, incredulously.

"It makes a sort of sense, don't you think? Believing people shouldn't be feared because they are a bit different?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow, and John had to admit, it did make a certain amount of sense. With his brain, Sherlock had probably been shunned most of his life, it would certainly make the social ineptitude and slightly sociopathic tendencies make a bit more sense, since John was fairly sure that Sherlock wasn't a sociopath. He shrugged. Mycroft continued. "If you wish to understand a bit more about where Sherlock is coming from, which I highly suggest you do, read the works of one D. Arthur. We're at the library now. I'd suggest making use of one of the public computers." The car rolled to a stop, and Mycroft glanced at the door. John got out of the car, which sped away. John watched it go, then sighed. He could always get a taxi. Or he could go inside the library. He turned and walked up the steps.

"I already told you Mycroft. He called me a freak."

"I did get your text, yes. And he didn't call you a freak, he said that he thought certain people have freaky abilities. There is a difference." Sherlock scowled. "John didn't know that you have any reason to take even accidental slurs against mutants personally. Give him a break. He wouldn't have said anything otherwise."

"So? He still would have thought it. At least now I know."

"Sherlock, you are being childish. "

"Oh, go be annoying somewhere else," replied Sherlock, reaching for his violin. Mycroft beat a hasty retreat. As he strode away, Sherlocks phone pinged.

Cut him some slack Sherlock. He didn't mean to hurt your feelings. MH

John sat at the library computer. D. Arthur had written several articles spanning over nearly twenty years. The first, and least polished, detailed the authors discovery of the mutant gene, which he called M19, through the study of two brothers, both of whom had the gene and had exhibited, 'symptoms' to quote from that first article. In later journals, he'd call them abilities or physical manifestations of the M19. He detailed, in the article, how he had used samples from both brothers, and samples from siblings in another family, to compare DNA and find the difference. It wasn't altogether scientific, as only four people from two families were studied, but he wrote out the process so it could at least be replicated, so it did follow the scientific method, which he pointed out more than once during the course of the article.

The second article was a bit shorter, but it explained that he had found that the different M19 gene was dormant in the father, but non existent in the mother, so it was obvious that the father had passed down the trait to his children. The next article was more of an addition to the previous, written several years later, detailing similar results in eight other experiments. The father had the dormant gene, the mother did not. He gave an email address, and asked people if they'd be willing to participate in a study, whether they were mutant or not. John emailed the address, but got a message back, saying that the message was undeliverable.

The articles were all very dry, and rather scientific, but John still found himself fascinated. It was interesting, he mused, that his inner voice read all of the articles in Sherlock's bored tones. The earliest articles, he noted, had first been published in scientific journals, and later reposted online, by the author.

Some of the articles dealt with new information about the M gene, so apparently the email address had worked at one point. Some were about origins of mutations. In the seventh article, A. Doyle stated conclusively, based on his research and others, that the gene was passed through the father. He was still looking for a connection between mutations. There didn't seem to be one. In most cases, if one sibling had a mutation, the other did as well. If not, the sibling without a dominant M gene still possessed it, only it was recessive. If more than one sibling had the gene, there was no obvious connection between them. One might have a physical manifestation of the gene, the other a mental one. He used an example of one girl who could turn her skin into stone, while her brother could control fire, provided there was fire to be manipulated. In the second to last article, he was still looking for any sort of link between the gene and the mutation it caused, but he was no closer to finding one than he had been when he started. He didn't say so, but it seemed to bother him. Though that may have been because he was still reading in Sherlock's voice, and Sherlock was definitely always annoyed when something didn't make sense. The last article had been published yesterday, and would only ever be found online.

'I have endeavored to keep my writing purely scientific and objective in nature. However, due to the extreme number of requests, as well as a new development in real life, I will, therefore, make an exception, and give my own personal opinion on mutation and those it affects.

I dislike the term "mutant." It sounds like a disease, cancerous, a problem. These people seem to me to be the next stage in human evolution. They are, intrinsically, no better or worse than the average human being. Everyone falls prey to weakness, to idiocy, and having a slightly elevated skill set, in some instances, doesn't change that. It matters not of someone is a member of the group of homo sapiens without the 'mutated' gene, or if they do in fact have a dominant M19 gene, I have little patience with either, if I am honest. Which I have agreed to be for the sake of this article.

It is foolish to be any more frightened of these people with the M19 gene than it is to be frightened of people without it. I have seen mutant monsters, and I have seen non-mutant monsters. It isn't the power that is frightening, it is how that power is used, and people without special abilities brought on by genetics are just as guilty of misusing power given them by nature or society.

The Mutant Registration Acts that America is trying to pass are foolish and unnecessary. It is possible they will pass, and that other countries will follow their lead. Parliament is currently drafting a bill that will potentially turn into a Registration Act. The UK is working on one as well, under the direction of America. Of course, it is all meant to be top secret, and will probably be censored out of this post when mention of these bills are found here.''

John smirked when he read that. Either the author was incorrect, or the government _hadn't_ found this particular post yet. Though he could imagine Mycroft having a real fit if someone was posting secrets like this on the internet.

Mycroft, of course, knew about the article. He also knew that if anyone else had found it, it would have been censored. But he wanted people to know, so he planned on leaving the document untouched for as long as he could get away with. It was fairly easy to divert the wrong people—i.e. those who would censor the article or take it down—away from it.

John knew none of that, and so simply found the statement rather amusing. He kept reading.

'As I said, I believe that it is wrong to tell people they have to register their names and mutation with the government. It brings to mind Europe of the 40s, a time I think no one would truly wish to relive.

There has been speculation as to whether or not I am a mutant. This, I decline to answer. It is unimportant to the research. People make misinformed accusations and suppositions when they don't have all the information. They assume that, just because someone _can_ do something—mind control, telekinesis, walking through walls—it means they will, and they will do this for nefarious purposes.

I refuse to take part in this. I remain Schrödinger's Cat, simultaneously mutant and non-mutant, and therefore, utterly non biased. I assure you, I have done countless hours of research and experimentation before arriving at my opinions.

I advise readers to draw their own conclusions only after becoming informed. I have given my opinion. I shall continue to do what experiments and research I can, and I will continue to inform the public about my findings. As always, I encourage the scientific community to try and replicate my experiments and to post their findings.

I will not talk about a 'cure' because I do not believe the M19 gene to be a disease.

However, as always, any new information, or elaboration of old information, is always appreciated.

-D. Arthur

John sat back, rubbed his eyes. He supposed this 'D. Arthur' person made quite a lot of sense. But he decided to take his advice, and do some other research as well. He followed links to articles by Dr. Hank McCoy, A professor Charles Xavier, someone called E. Lenscher, and some American senator who seemed quite against mutants being allowed to normal lives. The Lenscher one was full of the stuff that made John nervous, but he had to admit, even he made some interesting points. Looking back, John could see that 'D. Arthur' had expertly crafted his 'purely scientific' arguments to appear completely unbiased, but to also declare that this Lenscher person's thoughts were not the norm, and, more to the point, that he disagreed with them, even before he'd written the article voicing his own opinion frankly.

John was also fairly certain that the author _was_ in fact, a mutant, because, in one of the papers he admitted to being in Uni, which would make his age at the writing of the first article, somewhere in his early teens. That was of course, assuming that he had been a prodigy, and that he had been in Uni in his twenties, not sometime later. He wasn't sure which was more likely. But, having just read about not drawing conclusions before having all the facts, and after living with Sherlock, who said things of that nature all the time, he tried not to assume anything. It was harder than it seemed.

A glance at the clock told him that he'd been at the library for nearly four hours. He remembered that he'd left his Tesco bags in the car. He hoped Mycroft had brought them around to the flat, though he didn't hold out too much hope. He hurried out of the library, hailing a cab for home. Sherlock was in the kitchen, doing some experiment in the kitchen. This one smelled a bit weird, and John really didn't want to know what it was he was doing.

"I get why you were angry," said John, by way of greeting. "A bit, I mean. I was making inaccurate assumptions based on incomplete data," which was actually a word for word quote of one of the Arthur papers. He saw Sherlock start suddenly. "About people, I mean. Same sort of prejudices that start wars, yeah? But I've done some research now. And thought about it. I was a bit harsh really." Sherlock remained impassive throughout John's speech. "Anyway, I just wanted to say that I understand a bit why you got so angry." Sherlock then looked a bit surprised. Sherlock's 'surprised' face, much like his 'innocent' face, was perfect, and, if you knew him like John did, completely unbelievable. "I wasn't angry," he protested. John rolled his eyes, but didn't push it. At least Sherlock was talking to him again.

"Alright, you weren't angry. I completely misread it. I just thought you should know that D. Arthur managed to change my mind a bit. I was being unfair." Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Mycroft said you liked his stuff. I could see why, reading it. I could practically hear you narrating it." Sherlock turned a light shade of pink, but went back to his experiment, asking for a cup of tea, informing John that Mycroft had dropped off some groceries.


	5. Chapter 4 Fall

They were chasing their suspect in one of the most bizarre cases yet. Two people murdered, seemingly untouched. Sherlock suspected mutant's work.

John was angry with Sherlock. He had baited the killer, and now they were chasing him. He was angry because now they were standing on a rooftop, blocking the exit. The man glared at them. He couldn't jump again, there were no buildings near enough, and Sherlock and John were in front of the fire escape. Sherlock was grinning. The man was, apparently, well and truly trapped.

"Just come quietly, and we won't have to hurt you," said Sherlock, grinning. John wanted to yell at Sherlock, after all, this man could apparently kill people without touching them. Baiting him was nothing short of idiotic. The man shot out a hand, pointing it at Sherlock and John. Nothing happened, and Sherlock was confused for a moment. Then, John was no longer beside him. He was floating over the edge of the roof, their quarry's hand directed at John. "I could squeeze the air out of him," he said, mockingly. "But I think I might just let him drop instead. Let me go, or I will kill your friend."

"Why should I trust you? I say yes and you let him fall anyway." The man shrugged.

"As you say." And dropped his hand. And then John fell.

Everything happened in slow motion. Sherlock shed his jacket, and flexed the wings. They slid out of the slits in the back of his shirt, thank god he'd worn this one today, and he dove headfirst over the edge of the roof.

And so John was angry, through the fear as he saw Sherlock leap toward him, because now both of them would die. Sherlock kept the wings streamlined, tight against his back, arms stretched out for John.

John closed his eyes. He didn't want to see either of them hit the ground. He felt Sherlock's arms wrap around him, then a jolt, and Sherlock grunted in pain, and they weren't falling anymore. Odd, he though it would hurt a lot more. Then, they were moving upward again. He cracked an eyelid. No broken and bloodied corpses on the ground, which was rather frighteningly close, though not as close as it should have been. And they were still moving up. Sherlock's arms were looped under his armpits, behind him, and when he tilted his head back, he could see Sherlock, tendon's straining in his neck, as he focused on some point above them. Shadows John could barely see lurked behind Sherlock, and still they moved upward. His brain felt slow. And nothing was moving at the proper speed. Then, all at once, they were eye level with his would be killer, then just a bit higher, and suddenly, Sherlock swung him with rather incredible force, and his feet connected solidly with the shocked man's face. He went down immediately.

So did Sherlock and John. The sudden jarring motion caused Sherlock to drop John, and as they had been moving quite quickly, no matter how slow it had felt, they dropped out of the air and went skidding and tumbling across the roof. John lay on his stomach, feeling a bit battered, but alive. He tried to piece together what had happened. And then pushed himself up to his forearms, and just stared at Sherlock.

Catching John had hurt. He had definitely pulled several muscles, stopping as suddenly as he had, with the added dead weight of John in his arms. He could figure out the physics of it later. Then, flying upward, on sore wings, with said dead weight and absolutely no thermals of any kind….it hurt. And would probably take a while to heal. But he had to stop the killer. And he had a plan. Of sorts. He was a bit surprised that it worked, though he had forgotten that he and John would probably get hurt in the process. It was a bit like if a bicycle hits a curb. Except that he and John both went head over heels when their forward motion was suddenly halted by John's feet in the killer's face. The bouncing across the roof definitely hadn't helped the situation with his wings at all. Everything hurt now, and Sherlock lay on his back, wings splayed to either side.

The whole episode took maybe forty five seconds. It felt like lifetimes. And Sherlock closed his eyes. He could hear John moving a few feet away, and he felt as though something was lost. There was no hiding anything anymore. And John would finally see him for the freak he was. Sherlock didn't want to have to watch.

Finally, he sat, back still to John, and cautiously shook out his wings. No lasting damage at least. A few feathers dropped away, skipping across the rooftop. Sherlock stood, but didn't turn around. He wrapped his arms around himself and stared at the horizon, wings stiff and straight back, pulled close together. There was no folding them away, not without taking off the shirt, and really, what was the point anymore?

"Well," John choked out. "That explains a lot." Wings. He had wings. Big black wings, spreading from under his shirt. They looked slightly beat up right now, but, interestingly, they were still rather beautiful. John recalled the feathers he had found, Sherlock's odd reactions to them, the way he'd never once seen Sherlock without a shirt of some kind, his opinions of mutant rights, Sherlock's reaction to the word 'freak.' Suddenly things made sense.

The wings twitched, and John could tell that Sherlock had tensed his shoulders when John spoke. He slowly climbed to his feet. "Sherlock, look at me." Sherlock didn't move, but the wings twitched again. They were much more expressive than his face.

Sherlock swallowed. He couldn't look at John right now, he just couldn't. He'd see disgust, or fear, or…pity or worse, and he could not bear to see any of that on John's face, not if John was looking at him. It didn't help that John's voice sounded funny, sort of hoarse and choked and disbelieving. Sherlock wished he could turn back the clock, make it so they were never on this rooftop, that John hadn't been thrown off, that Sherlock hadn't had to save him. He was really very stupid at times. He shouldn't have baited the man. He was a killer, just because Sherlock had thought he was trapped, didn't mean that he didn't have something up his sleeve, and Sherlock should have remembered that. He dug his nails into his arms, feeling the pressure under his shirt. His wings stilled and he clenched his teeth, absolutely furious with himself.

When it became clear that Sherlock was not going to move, John decided to walk around. He wanted to see the wings from a different angle anyway. They were taller than Sherlock, though not by much, and quite wide as well. He wondered how he got them to fold so well under his shirt. He moved to Sherlock's front. He was glaring at the skyline, holding himself so stiff John thought he might break. "Sherlock," he said again. Sherlock looked pointedly off in another direction. John continued. "You saved my life."

That was unexpected. Sherlock turned his face, finally, to meet John's. "Thank you," said John, seriously.

"It shouldn't have been necessary," replied Sherlock, sharply.

"You couldn't have known," began John, but Sherlock interrupted.

"But I should have," he snapped, wings flaring suddenly. "That is what I _do_. I know things. I should have known…figured out what he was going to do. I knew he was capable of murder. I should have…." He trailed off. There were lots of things he should have done. None of which he had, and the result was that John had almost died. Now, John was alive, and looking at Sherlock like he was….actually, John was looking at Sherlock in exactly the same manner than he always did. A bit impressed, a bit annoyed. There was a trace of disbelief, and his eyes kept flicking to the wings, but he didn't look disgusted or horrified. At the moment, he also looked a bit pleased with himself.

And just for a moment, John was pleased. He'd managed to make Sherlock start in on an angry tirade of course, but he had also been acting much more like himself, for those few seconds. "You can't know everything all the time," he insisted. "You're human Sherlock."

"Am I?" Sherlock challenged.

"Oh, don't start that," said John. "Of course you are. How did you put it in that article? 'Just people with abilities beyond the norm?' or something like that?" Sherlock looked momentarily stunned. John smirked slightly. "That was you, wasn't it? D. Arthur was a pseudonym."

"Obviously," muttered Sherlock. He was a bit speechless, for once. He didn't like the feeling.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"That I was writing articles about mutants under a fake name?" asked Sherlock, a bit snarkily. John rolled his eyes.

"You know what I mean. You didn't think I might like to know about the fact that you've got wings? Didn't you trust me?" Because that's what hurt the most. The fact that Sherlock hadn't trusted him, that even now, he looked like he wished he could take everything back, or that John was going to start being horrified. Sherlock didn't reply for a long while, long enough that John thought he wasn't going to. Finally, in a quiet voice, Sherlock answered.

"You were the only person who didn't think I was…a freak, because…because of what I can do. The observations. Deductions. You thought it was fantastic. I didn't want to lose that. I didn't want you to think I was a…freak too." John ran his tongue over his teeth.

"Sherlock, I would never think you're a freak. You do some freaky things sometimes. But so does everyone. I mean, I don't like pudding. Some people think that's freaky." He grinned a little. "But you are not, and you never have been, a freak. And….you can fly. Do you know how many people would give an arm to be able to fly?" Sherlock shrugged, but he looked a bit interested despite himself. "If you ask most people what superpower they'd like to have, given a choice, they answer flying. And you actually get to do it. It's fantastic Sherlock."

And finally, Sherlock smiled too. John wasn't going to leave, or run off, horrified and sickened. He was amazed, and he seemed to like his wings, maybe even was a little jealous. And he didn't think Sherlock was a freak, or diseased, or…_wrong_.

"Well, I could take you sometime. Flying I mean. For real, not just…if someone throws you off a rooftop." And John's face broke into a huge, genuine grin.

"You would? God yes. Oh god, that would be…brilliant."

And it was, definitely, absolutely, wonderfully fantastic.

**End.**

**So, yeah, that's that. I might throw in a bonus chapter, just a little ficlet about a time before this story. It all written and everything, about half on the computer, but it really didn't flow with the story, and it would have just dragged everything down. So…yeah. Might post that at some point, depending on if ya'll want to read it or not. **

**I don't own Sherlock or John or anything really. Thanks for reading! And reviewing, those who reviewed. And story alerted and 'favorited' Those emails always make my day! **


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